


Love Runs Through Our Blood

by ryukoishida



Series: My Head is an Animal [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, BokuAka Week, M/M, owl shapeshifter!Akaashi, police officer!Bokuto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi Keiji – an advocate of shapeshifter rights and an owl shapeshifter himself – and Bokuto Koutarou – a rookie police officer with a secret of his own. This is how they first meet when a peaceful protest collapses into utter chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Runs Through Our Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spin-off from “The Violet Hour” (Oikawa/Sugawara), but chronology-wise, this fic goes first. Also, because I’m an unmotivated loser and fail to complete this entire story, I’m splitting this fic into two parts. So watch out for an update in the future if you’re still interested.

Akaashi Keiji’s vision is red.

 

It has happened so fast that by the time he’s aware of what’s happening, he’s been separated from his friends and is swallowed by the chaotic typhoon of people – a panicking crowd of human allies and suffering shapeshifters alike – forced to disperse from a peaceful protest near the city hall that ran amiss when the police started firing tear gas grenades at them.

 

That was only the beginning.

 

Next came batons and shields when they ventured too close – close enough to see the cruelty in their empty, impassive eyes, lips twisted in distaste and some in pure, sadistic enjoyment of seeing blood and hearing cries of help when they knew no one would come to their aid.

 

Then the bullets came whizzing past their heads. These plastic pallets contain dosages of specially-designed chemicals that would subdue a human and slow down the movements of their limbs; for a shapeshifter, however, getting injected with one of these would mean exposure.

 

A shot to the leg makes a man limp because the injured appendage is now significantly shorter and furrier than the other. A bullet to a woman’s back transforms the smooth, supple skin crawling with reptilian scales.

 

And a shot close to a shapeshifter’s heart leaves them half-dead, undignified, sprawled on all fours in the blood-soaked concrete of a city drenched in the orange glow of sunset. They become nameless creatures that have lost their humanity.   

 

They were ruthless – those blue and black uniformed animals who proudly call themselves humans – waving their weapons while preaching their version of peace.

 

The blood from his temple trickle down into the corner of his eyes – thick and warm and staining his skin where it touches.

 

Akaashi wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, barely registering the fact that his right arm, which has been thrumming in dull pain after the bullet has pierced through his skin and leaving a gaping, bleeding hole that’s shallow enough to not have shattered any bones, is covered with specks of feathers – long, lush plumage that ranges from a rufous auburn near his shoulder fading to ivory white along his finger tips where smaller feathers sprout, soft like snow.

 

The rivulets of blood seep beneath the feathers, staining the pale skin that’s still slightly visible.

 

He would count himself lucky. If the bullet had embedded into his arm long enough for the chemical to spread through his system, he wouldn’t be merely suffering from a feathered arm, and making his escape would have been extremely difficult and close to impossible.

 

Amongst the chaos, he’s gotten separated from Konoha and Komi, but they’ve both experienced worst. When you’re a shapeshifter, living with a constant fear that you can be attacked anywhere and anytime becomes a habit, and this habit is expressed through various ways: the hyperawareness of the surroundings, the flaring distrust when a stranger strikes up a conversation, the constant vigilance that they wear and hug close to themselves like armour.

 

The dark-haired shapeshifter rests his head against the brick wall, the surface sickly damp and matting his hair along with the sticky blood that still oozes from his wounds.

 

Everything is quieter now. Just the wailing of sirens and the occasional muffled gunshots in the distance.

 

He thinks he’s run far enough from the eye of the storm that the military police will not march further and discover his hiding place. The stench of the back alley – a disgusting mixture of rotting food and god knows what else – that Akaashi has taken temporary refuge in is dark and narrow; even with his slight frame, he barely slips through between the garbage cans and stacks of flattened cardboard boxes.  

 

Just as he’s about to pull a roll of bandages out from his messenger bag to dress his bullet wound, a flash of white light washing over the walls just above his head startles him into utter silence. He wills his breathing to slow down his and only releases air through his nostrils, limbs frozen and locked into position.

 

His heart thunders against his ribcage and his hands are sweaty, nails darkened into maroon moons from dried blood, and he hugs his bag closer to his chest as he hears footsteps – boots screeching against wet concrete – coming closer.

 

Akaashi peeks out from behind a stack of cardboard and sees an officer – just a cop if his green uniform is of any indication, and not related to the military police, it seems – with his gun out, sweeping his arms from side to side. The man is heavily-built – all firm muscles and trained to hunt – and taller than Akaashi; in his current condition, he’s not sure whether he’ll be able to outrun the other man.    

 

He takes another step and turns towards where Akaashi is concealed, and their eyes lock – panicked slate grey on alarmed caramel gold.

 

Then the officer’s gaze flickers down to where Akaashi’s heavily-feathered arm can clearly be seen, and his eyes widen in realization.

 

The dark-haired shapeshifter flinches when the officer speaks, his tone discordantly loud in the quiet little alley where his voice echoes like a persistent ghost within the narrow walls.

 

“A-are you okay?”

 

Akaashi notices with wary eyes that the cop has put his gun away, but his suspicion doesn’t dissipate. He appraises the approaching man, who places his arms up with his palms forward to wordlessly express his intention: he will not harm him.

 

A few paces off, and Akaashi finally snaps, voice dangerously low and tight, “Don’t come any closer.”

 

“You’re hurt,” he points out, concerned eyes glancing over to the dark-haired man’s arm once more and his grey brows pucker into a frown. “I just want to help…”

 

He takes another step forward, a streak of sunlight – blood orange verging on bruised violet – passes through a punctured awning and glosses over the odd salt and pepper-coloured strands of the officer’s hair.

 

“Don’t,” Akaashi warns, eyes flashing darker, voice hoarse. He can feel the exact moment when instinct takes over his body: his senses flare to their extreme to detect the slightest hints of danger, more feathers sprout along his pale smooth skin so that they feel plush and thick and ready to take flight, smaller feathers that make up his facial disk dot his cheeks and forehead, and his feet are filling up his shoes as his toes curl into sharp talons that rip through the rubber soles.

 

“You’re an owl shapeshifter, aren’t you?”

 

There’s a spark of… _something_ , in the stranger’s large, golden eyes. Recognition? Empathy? Whatever it is, it doesn’t terrify Akaashi as much as he’s thought it would, but he’s learned to put his guard up before he comprehends the entire situation. This man will not become an exception.

 

Blindly trusting someone has made him lost many comrades in the past, after all, and he doesn’t wish to repeat the same foolish mistakes again.

 

“So what if I am?” Akaashi tries to intimidate him as he steps away from behind his shield, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a tight snarl; his arms are pulled up in a defensive stance. There’s no use in hiding if the man already knows what he is. “Will you drag me to the nearest correction facility?”

 

“No way!” The cop shakes his head rigorously, silver and black hair falling into his eyes from the movement, as if the mere thought itself is an offense. “Of course I won’t. I told you, didn’t I? I just want to help.” He seems at least genuine, yet it’ll take more than a kind sentiment to convince Akaashi.

 

“You’re one of _them_.”

 

The accusation and distrust in his voice is subtle, but the shift on the cop’s face tells Akaashi that he gets it – gets that the division between humans and shapeshifters is something that’s always been reinforced by society through the biased laws, and that it can’t be easily erased just by a few sincere words.

 

The officer opens his mouth, ready to argue or to defend himself, perhaps, but only silence persists between them.

 

“But I’m not,” the officer admits in a softer voice, almost imperceptible with the distance between them, and Akaashi thinks maybe even the man himself doesn’t really believe the words that come out of his own mouth. He has sounded so fragile and uncertain, golden eyes darting from the owl shapeshifter’s face to the direction vaguely to his left, and his fingers flex restlessly by his side. “Not really.” It doesn’t look like he wants to elaborate, his shoulders slacking and mouth twisting into a helpless little smile.

 

Akaashi doesn’t mind; he neither has the time nor the interest to find out what sort of a person this stranger is. His lustrous black eyes carefully gauge each little movement the officer makes – he seems at a loss of what to do after his quiet declaration – and when Akaashi catches the moment, he takes his chance to complete his transformation, his eyes still locked onto the nameless man’s golden gaze in quiet defiance.

 

Gentle flames lick the surface of his skin like millions of needles prickling as he feels his bones and flesh alter – each molecule shakes and changes until he’s no longer human-shaped, until the noise in his mind gets shut off and only the pure desire to escape is left. He takes flight into the darkening sky, a rich, velvet twilight blue tinged with orange along the horizon, wings spread wide and silent, and he can still make out the officer’s shout of “Wait! Hold on a minute! Oi, come back ––”

 

The wind whipping against his feathers blocks out the rest of whatever the man is crying towards the sky. Towards him.

 

Akaashi wonders if he would have stayed. He doesn’t allow himself to ponder for too long.

 

-

 

When Bokuto Koutarou returns to where his fellow officers in his platoon have gathered, two streets away from where the protest organized by two of the main non-profit associations advocating for shapeshifters’ rights have broken into utter chaos and violence, all heads turn to face the salt-and-pepper-haired man, most of them regarding him with unfriendly or conniving stares.

 

The streets are deserted compared to how the crowd had been filling the sidewalks and the main roads just mere thirty minutes earlier, and the pavements are streaked with blood and unconscious bodies. Most of those will be transferred to the closest House of Correction. Those who are confirmed dead will be discarded into a pile at the back of the facility and later that night, the neighboring residents within a two-mile radius will be able to smell the sickly stench of scorched body fat and see the column of black smoke trembling in the summer breeze as they rise high into the sky, the crackling of bones the only sounds that accompany the spirits of those burning bodies as they dance and howl one last time before their departure into the next world.

 

For those who are still alive, however, many of them would have wished for certain deaths by the time they are wheeled into an operating theatre, the glare of blinding white lights in their eyes while their limbs are strapped to the table like overgrown lab rats. Their anguished screams are songs for the scientists who poke and jab and cut them in the glorifying name of healing their “illness”, and when they exhale their last breath, exhausted and unable to fight any longer, scientists see this as some sort of vile victory.

 

During his police academy training, Bokuto had visited one of these correction facilities, and what he’d seen that day would come back to haunt him in his dreams from time to time. His parents’ faces – blurry from his own tears or from the rusted memory of time – are always the last image he remembers before he wakes up, drenched in cold sweat. He’s used to it by now – doesn’t bother him as much – but he still doesn’t like to think about that place.

 

“Officer Bokuto,” the platoon’s leader, a middle-aged lieutenant with a bushy mustache and cold, calculating blue eyes, calls the young man to attention.

 

“Sir?” His eyes glare straight ahead as his body stiffens into a salute.

 

“Did you find and secure any protestors during your patrol?”

 

Bokuto can see a group of battered but very much alive protestors – some of them so beat up or were shot at that they’ve transformed into their semi-animal state – lining up by the wall a few meters away. They are heavily guarded by the military police on each side, their guns strapped and ready to be fired if the protestors decide to escape or start a scuffle.

 

He remembers the quiet fury in those mesmerizing ink-black eyes, the pale lips and thread-thin voice, and the beautiful shades of those feathered wings – fuscous brown barred with creamy white – that spread wide and free over him, elegant and silent as the man who transformed into a majestic rufous-legged owl right before his very eyes flew into an unknown destination.

 

“No, sir,” he replies in a firm but respectful tone.

 

The lieutenant scoffs, unimpressed, and turns his back towards the young man, as if he’s already expected his answer. All around him, other junior officers begin to murmur amongst themselves while casting Bokuto dirty looks.

 

He knows what they’re saying without needing to hear the obvious laughter and unpleasant insults.

 

They’re scared of him. They don’t know the reason why, and Bokuto does not plan to reveal himself anytime soon, but ever since he joined the police academy and graduate about a year ago, none of his classmates dare to become close acquaintances with him.

 

Bokuto is loud and enthusiastic, and even though he’s neither the top nor worst candidate in his graduating class, people tend to stay away from him as if they can sense his strange aura – something disturbing, something that just doesn’t sit right with them and sends shivers down their spines whenever Bokuto’s golden eyes meet their gazes, something incomprehensible and predatory in his blood.

 

They’re scared of him, yes, but even more so than the apparent prejudice Bokuto has experienced again and again from his coworkers and superiors, they don’t know the reason behind Bokuto’s joining the police forces in the first place, or the reason why he’s stayed for as long as he has despite the discrimination and mistreatment.

 

That night, as he looks through the small array of objects that he’s found in the stranger’s messenger bag that he’s left behind in his haste to escape, he flattens a few crumpled pieces of paper. One of them is a pamphlet that advertises a coffee shop called Karasuno Café.

 

His eyes widen slightly when he recognizes the name. If the man is associated with the coffee shop or the owners themselves, perhaps locating him would be much simpler than he’s previously thought…

 

Bokuto makes a promise to himself then: he will find the injured shapeshifter and he will have a nice, long talk with him, assuming the man will stay in his human form long enough to carry a conversation and not flee at the sight of him.

 

After all, Bokuto thinks as a bitter smile graces his lips, he’s had the label of “traitor” branded on his skin for all these years, and the nameless shapeshifter will discover that they share more similarities than he’s willing to admit.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be another part… hopefully soonish. Thanks for sticking around to read my first BokuAka attempt!


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